


Hitting the Books

by thehobblefootalchemist



Series: Like Calligraphy on Scrap Paper [2]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: F/M, Gen, along with a smidge of pre-shippiness, and there is commiseration over dealing with brothers, because I owe it to my most beloved rarepair to write something for it, in which Writer is protective of his wardrobe choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 17:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11109381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobblefootalchemist/pseuds/thehobblefootalchemist
Summary: Jazz is a bit burnt out at the end of a semester and, seeking a breather, strikes up a bit of conversation.





	Hitting the Books

The atmosphere in the Fenton household was akin to a study hall: in the basement laboratory Maddie and Jack were hard at work on a new invention; Danny and his friends had taken over the living room in an effort to prepare themselves for their various senior finals; and upstairs, Jazz and the Ghostwriter were camped out in her bedroom working respectively on a term paper and a new book idea.

Jazz had been at her work for hours, however—and that was just that day, this thing had been killing her all week—and was starting to crave a few moments of distraction. She let her eyes move about her room from where she sat on her floor surrounded by reference material, and eventually (inevitably) they settled on her companion, whom she watched for a little while.

“…Hey Writer?”

“Hmm?” He finished scribbling out a sentence and then looked up from his notes.

Jazz chewed her lip a moment, then bit the bullet and voiced the thing she’d been considering. “Could I see you? Like, how you show yourself to everyone else when we go out?”

Writer looked a smidge baffled, as if he couldn’t divine a reason she’d need to do so, but he indulged her. Soon his ghostly glow was fading, his complexion changing to one that did not make it appear as if he’d just asphyxiated. His eyes were the most marked alteration, though, becoming a green far less neon than their usual shade.

Jazz studied him a minute—and then started laughing. Writer immediately looked affronted.

“What?” he asked.

“Your coat,” she said, trying to hide her smile behind her hand. “I just didn’t expect it would stay purple.”

He leapt to the defense of the unusual article of clothing. “I’ll have you know it was this color even back when I was alive.”

Jazz couldn’t help another chuckle. “And I bet you never took it off.”

She had to have been close to the mark to elicit such self-consciousness from his features. “It’s my favorite coat,” he protested. “And frankly I don’t see where you have room to talk, wearing that black-and-blue combination of yours practically every day.”

“Those are at least multiples of the same style,” she pointed out. “That’s a little different than constantly using the same thing.”

Writer looked away, grumbling. “Yes, well, I had to make do. There were only two coats of this type in my size in the entire store, and Randy wanted the other one.”

He was starting to seem legitimately hurt by her attitude toward the situation, so Jazz decided to let it go. Climbing to her feet she went and sat next to him on the edge of her bed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as making fun.”

“…yes, well.” Still-moss-green eyes glanced at her sidelong. “I apologize too, for being so up in arms about it. It’s just…I suppose it’s just that, well, my outfit’s practically the only thing from…back then…that I got to keep.”

His thumb was tapping spasmodically against his pencil; almost unthinkingly, Jazz reached over and clasped his hand with her own, stilling the agitated motion. “Then you wear it for as much of your eternity as you want,” she told him. “…Just maybe switch up how people see your shirt and scarf every once in a while, so they don’t start getting nosy about you being mostly static. It’s a bit miraculous they haven’t already.”

Writer was looking at her strangely. He didn’t respond for a while—so long in fact that Jazz almost said something else—but then abruptly blinked twice, cleared his throat, and looked down at his notes again. “Will do,” he replied quietly.

His appearance shifted back to its usual state, his teeth and ears becoming pointed once again under her gaze as she tried to figure out what his body language meant, and what it was about what she’d said that prompted it.

All at once she realized that she was still holding his hand, and he wasn’t making any moves to indicate he wished for it back. Both facts froze her up a bit, and she did some looking away of her own.

“I liked your phrasing there, by the way,” he said, abruptly. “‘My eternity’.”

Jazz had to check his expression, unsure if he was being passive-aggressive or not. But Writer’s features lacked any anger; he in fact wore a light smile.

“It’s just funny you’re assuming I’ll have one,” he continued. “I’ve picked up on your brother’s opinion of us interacting with one another, you know. I rather think he’s plotting a few ecto-blasts if he ever catches me alone again.”

His tone was more amused than anything, but she was still chagrined. “Yeah, his obsession being ‘protection’ gets in the way a bit sometimes.”

“Mm…because this” –Writer squeezed her hand a little– “is so dangerous.”

_Now_ he was being facetious. Jazz laughed in spite of herself. “There are some who would say it’s inadvisable,” she mentioned, unable to turn devil’s advocate mode off. “Not that I do. But definitely some.”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me. Randy never lets me hear the end of this.”

“I thought you said he tolerated me?”

“What he said was, if I was going to be odd and befriend anybody on the human plane, it made the most sense that it would be someone like you,” he clarified. Jazz didn’t know how one could mimic someone who had the exact same voice as they did, but Writer managed a specific tone in his quotation that was distinctly _Randy_. “Which means he understands, but not that he won’t needle me about it for his own amusement.”

She was caught between shaking her head and rolling her eyes, and managed an action that was a strange combination of both. “Siblings.”

“Siblings,” he agreed, letting himself fall back against the sheets. “Hhah…I don’t think I’m getting anything else done on this project today.”

Jazz twisted her head to look down at him, attempting to figure out if that was a general statement or if he was obliquely letting her know he needed a change of scenery. “Did you have something else in mind you want to do?”

Silence.

“…Writer?”

He glanced up at her, a somewhat embarrassed frown tugging at his lip. “If it’s not going to put you out too much…I think I may need a nap.”

“Oh! No, that’s fine!” Jazz smiled at him. “Go ahead and take as much time as you need. You’re not taking up any space I’ll be using, I was doing best working on the floor anyway.”

She stood, gripping his fingers one more time before backing off down to her pile of papers once again. His return smile was an endearing combination of apologetic and grateful.

“I’ll try not to leave it too cold over here,” he joked.

The room descended into a state of pleasant quiet once again, broken only by the shuffling of Jazz’s work and Writer’s coat when he happened to shift position. Jazz had only seen him sleep a handful of times, so she found herself occasionally glancing up from her essay to watch him—having to think through the mires of her next topic wasn’t so bad with him lying peacefully in the background.

Or at least, mostly at peace. There were a few times where she swore she heard him mumbling something, and once Writer actually blinked his eyes open and glanced about without focus around the room. Jazz said nothing. She knew this could be an interesting window into his head—especially when she caught him peering at Bearbert, who was sitting on the bedside dresser within about a foot of his face.

“…I remember you,” he slurred at the stuffed toy. Contemplatively, he arranged his hand in a manner that allowed him to point at it. “You had a chainsaw…was funny at the time…”

Lethargy proved too much for him, though, and he nodded off again soon after that nonsensical remark.

Jazz, however, had not wasted an opportunity. There were pictures that said a thousand words, but she could write a whole new paper in addition to the one she was already working with on the photograph now stowed away quite secretly on her phone—the photograph of the ghost of a novelist lying on her bed having a one-sided conversation with an Einstein-inspired teddy bear.

“Sometimes I don’t even know what my life is anymore,” she muttered, utterly enjoying that fact.


End file.
